


John Watson and The Consulting Detective

by Leopara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Murder Mystery, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28495158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leopara/pseuds/Leopara
Summary: It's a challenge to be a Muggleborn in magical society. John Watson knows this all too well. It is why he left behind the magical society to join the Muggle Armed Forces twenty years ago. Then he was shot.After his accident, he back in London and meeting friends both old and new. Who is Sherlock Holmes anyway?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 5





	1. John Watson

Doctor John H. Watson was no ordinary man. An army doctor and former soldier of the Queen’s army home from the fight in Afghanistan. No self-respecting Muggle would believe you though, if you were to say he was a wizard. Yes, John Watson seemed quite the opposite of magical.  
  
He was born in 1972 on a cold October day to Muggle parents. Nearly eleven years later, he received his first letter to Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry. John exceeded in both Charms and Defense against the Dark Arts; the young Hufflepuff couldn’t wait to see the world. Upon his graduation, John joined the muggle armed forces, working on his degree in medicine. When Voldemort revealed himself to the magical community, John Watson was already gone to fight in muggle wars overseas.  
  
Our story begins when Dr. Watson returns in 2010 to London, after a nearly fatal gunshot.  
  
/*~/*~/*~  
  
October 12, 2010  
  
John awoke, sweat pouring down his face. The war replayed in his mind, nearly every night now. Blood and death seemed to haunt him, chasing him through his dreams. Taking the soldier out of the war doesn’t take the war out of the soldier. Facing yet another day as a civilian seemed the most daunting challenge yet discovered by the army doctor.  
  
Watson lived as if he had never left the military. John woke at first light every day. He maintains absolute orderly cleanliness of his one-room bedsit, giving his living quarters a bare and dreary feel. He went for mid-morning walks, visited with his therapist and attempted to write his blog. These things however, never gave meaning back into John Watson’s life.  
  
Later that day, John had an appointment with his therapist. She was pretty, with mocha-brown skin and kind brown eyes, yet a stick was so far up her ass it interfered with basic brain functions to such a point she failed to even understand the depth of the difficulties Watson faced.  
  
“How is your blog going?” She would ask. Obviously not well. How would he even start such a thing? ‘Hello, I’m John Watson and I’m a wizard.’  
  
“Yea, good” John sign then tried to cover it with a cough. “Very good,” he clarified. Lying was not his forte.  
  
“You haven’t written a word, have you?” She wrote something patiently down in his files.  
  
“You just wrote ‘still has trust issues’?” John accused.  
  
“And you read my writing underside down,” She replied. After a pregnant pause, she continued “see what I mean?”  
  
He looked away, trying to ignore the difficult woman. “John,” she said, bringing his attention back, “you’re a soldier. It’s going to take a while to adjust to civilian life and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.” Not when sharing his life story was against either muggle or wizarding law. It was better that no one, including his nosy therapist, knew what happen to John H. Watson.  
  
With a grim smile, John replied, “Nothing happens to me.”  
  
/*~/*~/*~  
  
Going through his normal routine, Dr. Watson was taking his mid-morning stroll through Diagon Alley when he was stopped by the most unlikely of fellows. “John? John Watson?” called someone from behind him. Turning, John seeks out the voice. A round man dressed neatly in Muggle clothes but with the most hideous of ties, stood and approached; he reached out to shake John’s hand.  
  
“Mike. Mike Stanford.” He stated upon seeing the confused expression on John’s face. “We were in the same year at Hogwarts.” John remembered a mousey-haired, rail-thin Ravenclaw from his Muggle Studies class by that name. “Yes, hello; Mike, hello” John replied. “Yes, I got fat.” Mike knew exactly what John was thinking. “No” John quickly attempted to save himself from his blunder.  
  
Shaking his head, Mike dismissed the topic and continued, “Last I heard, you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at by muggles. What happened?” John answered simply, “I got shot.” Mike seemed taken aback.  
  
“Well, that sounds like quite the adventure. How about we head over to the Leaky Caldron and you can tell me about your life among the muggles.” While Mike wasn’t quite the last person John would tell about the war, he wasn’t on top of the list either. However, it would be nice to have someone to chat with over lunch.  
  
“I’ll be glad to join you” Watson said with a smile.  
  
/*~/*~/*~  
  
“You still at St. Mungo, then?” John asked politely over their butter beers.  
  
“Teaching, now. Potions. Bright young things like we used to be. Merlin, I hate them!” Both of them chuckle thinking of old Professor Snape and how he seemed to abhor children. John had been horrible at Potions, his record for blowing up the dungeons defeated only by a Neville Longbottom, a Gryffindor student several years behind him.  
  
“What about you? Staying in town while you get sorted?” Mike asked.  
  
“Can’t afford London on an army pension.” John replied.  
  
“Ah, but you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”  
  
“I’m not the John Watson...” John hissed, before catching himself. There really was no reason to be rude to Stanford. He was only trying to catch up with him after all. Flexing his hand, tried to relieve the frustration he was feeling as silence lay between them.  
  
“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike inquired. Harriet, or Harry as friends knew her, was John’s sister. While she was a muggle, Harry was well known in the wizarding community and not just for the amount of trouble she caused either.  
  
“Yea, like that’s going to happen.” Harry was quite busy with her own mistakes at the moment, including her divorce from Clara, the lead singer of Mystique, a recently popular wizarding band. It was all quite a scandal according to the Daily Prophet.  
  
“Well, I don’t know. You could get a flatshare or something.” Mike continued, trying to be helpful to his old friend.  
  
“Ah, what! Who would want me for a flatmate?” This made Mike chuckle yet again, much to John’s confusion. “What?” John asked.  
  
“You’re the second person to say that to me today.”  
  
Wondering out loud, John asked, “Who’s the first?” Mike just smiled.  
  
/*~/*~/*~  
  
After lunch, both men made their way over to Bart’s hospital. Mike had decided to be mysterious about the person he will be meeting; he didn’t want John to have any preconceived notions.  
  
Walking into the laboratory, John noticed the high-tech equipment lining the walls and tables. “Oh, bit different from my day.” John stated, remembering the lab from his muggle medical training.  
  
“You have no idea.” Mike replied, thinking John was referring to the Potions laboratory at Hogwarts; he really hope John wouldn’t blow anything up here.  
  
“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There is no signal on mine.” A rich baritone voice asked, coming from the man working off to the side of the lab. Mike gave the man the most confused look. John would bet that Mike had forgotten about cellular phones.  
“What’s wrong with the landline?” Mike asked. He seemed off, almost nervous.  
  
“Oh, no. I prefer to text.” The man replied.  
  
“Sorry, it’s in my coat.” The muggle stared at Mike, who was wearing his coat. Sensing upcoming trouble, possibly figuring out that Mike apparently doesn’t have a phone, John intervened. “Ah, here. Use mine.”  
  
“Oh?” said the man, his grey-green eyes flicked to John before returning to Mike. “Thank you.” He stood, walking over to retrieve the phone from John. As he did, Mike introduced him. “This is an old friend of mine, John Watson.”  
  
As the man looked over his phone, he asked “Afghanistan or Iraq?” John shot a confused glance to Mike, who only smirked. ”Sorry?” John questioned.  
  
“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” This strange man inquired. John looked at Mike who smiled in amusement.  
  
“Afghanistan. Sorry but how did you…” John was interrupted when a woman enter the lab. He caught a white lab coat and long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, but didn't notice much else about the muggle woman. She didn’t gather much of John’s attention as he focused on the mystery before him.  
  
“Ah, Molly.” He greeted. “Coffee, thank you.” The man stared at Molly. “What happen to the lipstick?”  
  
“I’m... It wasn’t working for me.” She replied. Molly was looking anywhere but at him.  
  
“Really?” he sounded surprised. “I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now.” He commented, returning to the computer at the other end of the lab.  
  
“Okay.” Molly muttered her voice hopeful. She left quietly, gently touching her bottom lip.  
  
“How do you feel about the violin?” the man questioned. John look at Mike, confused at the change of subject. Mike smirked, giving a small shake of his head.  
  
“I’m sorry, what?” John was becoming annoyed.  
  
“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Does that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He gave a small, fake smile to John, enjoying the man annoyance.  
  
John looked at Mike. “You told him about me then?”  
  
“Not a word.” Mike was smirking yet again.  
  
“Then who said anything about flatmates?” John glared him down.  
  
“I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Then here he is, just after lunch with an old friend, who is just home from military service in Afghanistan. It wasn’t a difficult leap.”  
  
“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asked.  
  
The man avoided answering the question. “I got my eye on a nice, little place in central London. Together, we should be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow at seven o’clock. Sorry, got to dash. I need to pick up my riding crop from the mortuary.” He headed quickly for the door.  
  
“Is that it?” John asked, his annoyance clearly showing in his voice.  
  
“Is that what?”  
  
“We just meet and we are going to get a flat.”  
  
“Problem?” the man asked, moving away from the door.  
  
“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we are meeting. I don’t even know your name.” John challenged.  
  
With clear annoyance, the man took John’s challenge. “I know you are an army doctor and I know you been airlifted home from Afghanistan. I know you have a brother who has been worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he is an alcoholic, more likely because he just walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I’m afraid.” He continued in a whisper. “So, I have a little more to go on than you think.” With that, he turned away, walking to the door.  
  
He paused, holding the door open as he stated. “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one B Baker St.” Sherlock gives John a wink. “Afternoon” he called out to Mike.  
  
Mike gave him a small two-finger salute. Turning he answer the silent question. “Yep, he’s always like that.”  
  
/*~/*~/*~


	2. The Muggle Flatmate

“How did you even meet that man?” John asked, wondering how the paths of his very magical friend and such a curious muggle had crossed. John was quite blown away by him.

“I, occasionally, do some potions work for the Auror department, determining which potion, how effective it was and where it was brew and so forth.” Mike stated, moving off the corner. “On more than one case however, it’s been a muggle chemical used to commit the crime. I was sent over to Bart’s to figure it out. Bump into him from time to time. Can figure out what I am looking faster than I can so get his opinion on it.”

“So he knows about magic?” John inquired. Not having to worry about showing his wand around his muggle flatmate would be quite a relief. John had spent years hiding his magic from superiors and fellow soldiers. He certainly didn’t care to continue such secrecy in his daily behavior.

“Not truly. He usually only helps with cases where there’s clearly muggle criminals attacking magical folk. Don’t need to go breaking the statue of secrecy now.” Mike stated heartily.

“Of course” John replied.

/*~/*~/*~

“The body of Beth Davenport, junior minister of transport, was found late last night at a building site in greater London.” Sally Donovan sat calmly in front of two dozen reporters, all vying for the latest story. It not every day a Politian turned up dead. “Preliminary investigation suggests this was a suicide. We can confirm this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore.” All three victims were projected above the detectives’ heads, their deaths showed for the whole world to see until forgotten in fifteen minutes when Doctor Who starts. “In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is on-going but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now.”

One of the reporters, a short white man with an unfortunately large nose spoke first, “Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?”

DI Lestrade focus on the reporter replying “Well, they all took the same poison, um, they were all found in places they had no reason to be, none of them had showed any prior indication…”

“But you can’t have serial suicides” protested the original reporter. “Well, apparently you can.” The DI counter. As the large-nosed reporter glared Lestrade down, another reporter, salt-pepper hair with moderately tan skin, jump in asking, “These three people, there’s nothing that links them?”

In apartment B of 221 Baker St, one Sherlock Holmes watched press conference on the telly. With his laptop in front of him, he hacked into the telephone lines, collecting all the number of the reporters in the room linking them to his system. He waited patiently for the right moment.

Lestrade answered, “There’s nothing that has been found yet, but we are looking for it. There’s has to be one.” At that very moment, Sherlock clicked ‘enter’ on his laptop, sending out the mass text message. Mere seconds after Lestrade’s false statement several phones including Donovan’s and Lestrade’s went off alerting them to a single word message: ‘Wrong!’

Upon checking her phone, Donovan stated “if you all got texts please ignore them.”

“It just says wrong” replied the first reporter to question Lestrade.

“Yea, well, just ignore that.” Donovan insisted. “If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I am going to bring this session to an end.”

Seeing his window of opportunity closing, the second reporter jump in again with “If these are suicides, what are you investigating?”

“As I said, these suicides are clearly linked. Um, it’s an unusual situation but our best people are investigating it.” Lestrade barely had a chance to finish his statement before Sherlock send out ‘Wrong!’ again to the reporters. His best person was sitting at home.

“Says wrong again” and so did the first reporter prove himself to be Captain Obvious.

Clearly frustrated, Donovan called out “One more question.”

An older female reporter, thin and bony, the type to peep through windows at the neighbors, asked “Is there any chances these are murders? And if they are, are they the work of a serial killer?”

Greg signed, knowing this press release was not going as planned. Trying to keep the public from panicking was of top priority. “I know you like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The poison was clearly self-administered.”

“Yes, but if they are murders how do people keep themselves safe?” the woman reporter insisted. She wasn’t going to take the bull crap that the detectives were trying to feed the media.

“Well, don’t commit suicide.” A shock expression crossed the reporter’s face. That was not the reply she was expecting at all. Covering the mic, Donovan whispers something to Lestrade. “Obviously, this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be.”

Signing, Sherlock hit ‘enter’ again. In his opinion, Lestrade really shouldn’t be giving these people false security when the method of how victims died was unknown. Picking up his cellphone, Sherlock send a quick text to Lestrade: ‘You know where to find me SH’ Closing the laptop and pocketing his phone, Sherlock took off to Bart’s with his riding crop. Little did he know that later that day would he meet the former soldier John Watson.

/*~/*~/*~

"I'm telling you it is!"

"Well, I telling you you're full of it!"

Harry Potter stood in the doorway, watching this debate go back and forth. He supposed this is what he should of expected putting these two together. 

"How can you possibly think this is bull, Mels? Coffee is a muggle drink and should be left to the muggles. Now, tea! Tea is a proper magical drink. All it's ingredients, made by wizards, for wizards." 

"And how is coffee different than any of the other food we get from muggles? Short of what is grown for potions, almost all of our food comes from muggles. Coffee is a beverage worthy of wizards just like eggs and toast."

"That doesn't stop it from being disgusting."

"You're full of it, James."

Harry knew he needed to direct them if he was going to get this done. "Moriarty, Mills." Both heads snap his way. Gone were the playful expressions, eyes now watchful. Harry dropped the case file on Mills' desk. "I need this to resolved carefully. No mistakes. The Minster herself is expecting results." Harry turned on his heel once Mills had picked up the file.

"Merlin! This is going to be bloody awful." Several minutes later, Mills dropped the file on James desk. He open it. He grimace within moments of opening it. 

"Well. The sooner we start, the sooner we can close it."

/*~/*~/*~

John returned to his bedsit that afternoon. He remembered well the eventful discussion with Sherlock Holmes, his potential flatmate. As he sat on his bed, the text sent from his phone came to mind. Pulling it out, he checked the message: ‘If brother has green ladder, arrest brother SH’

Now, that’s quite odd, John thought. What does this man do for a living? John knew he needed to know more about this Sherlock, particularly of he was going to live with him. Walking across the room, John pulled out his muggle laptop and did a google search on Sherlock Holmes.

He was engrossed in reading about The Science of Deduction when his phone rang. John quickly answering upon seeing the caller ID. “Hello, Mels.” He greeted. Mels Mills, another old friend from Hogwarts, and his only Slytherin friend from school. Mels wasn’t as popular in Slytherin as she should have been due to being Muggleborn, so naturally she had turned to other houses to find friends.

“Hi, John! Mike told me you are in London.” Mels greeted, her smile shining through her voice.

“Yes, I am. Planning on staying too, I have a flatshare in mind.”

“Oh, really? That sounds great! Have any flatmates lined up?”

"Yes, this fellow named Sherlock Holmes. Does the name ring any bells?" Silence pour through the line. "Mels? You still there?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Sherlock Holmes you say? I think have heard the name before. He's that genius muggle detective, right?"

"Ah. I guess Mike has been mentioning him to everyone, huh?"

"Would be surprised. Anyway, I want to bring some housewarming gifts for your new flat. Help you get settled in and all. Maybe we could go for some drinks after?"

"I love to catch up, Mels. I'm going to see the place tomorrow. 221 B Baker St. I'll sent you a text if I do decide to go for it."

/*~/*~/*~

October 13, 2010

Around nine o’clock, John walked over to Baker Street, seeking out 221B. As he knocks on the door, Sherlock exited a taxi behind him. “Hello,” Sherlock called out.

Turning around, John replied, “Oh, Mr. Holmes.”

“Sherlock, please” He grasp the other’s hand, shaking firmly.

“This is a prime spot.” John stated “Must be expensive.”

“Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a deal. She owes me a favor.” At John’s curious expression, he continued, “Few years back, her husband got himself sentence to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“So, you stop her husband from being executed?” John didn’t quite believe it.

“No, I insured it.” John was glad the door opened when it did, as he didn’t even have a beginning of a response to that.

An older lady, in a neat purple dress, opened the door. Her face broke into a huge smile upon seeing the taller man. “Sherlock” she said as she hugged him closed only releasing after a quick peck on his cheek.

“Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled at John. “Hello, come in.” She greeted.

“Thank you.”

“Shall we?” Sherlock said, but hopping up the front steps into the house and proceeding upstairs with all the energy of a young man and the grace of a jungle cat. John was not as energetic or graceful, and made his way up one step at a time.

Stepping in the flat behind Sherlock, John first sight was of a box-filled living area. Still, it was cozy, despite the mess. “Oh, this could be very nice.” Though, what is that smell, he thought “Very nice indeed.”

“Yes, yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely” Sherlock answered. A small thrill travelled up his spine at the thought of Dr. Watson living here. “How soon can you in?” Sherlock asked. “..Manage to clean up.” John was speaking. “Oh” Sherlock stood still, as he was a deer in the headlights.

“So, this is…” Dr. Watson started, but Sherlock was off again in frenzy.

“Well, obvious I can straighten things up…” and he grabbed a newspaper, set it on the mantle stabbed it there with a thin knife. “A bit” he finished. This drew John’s eye to the colorful collection of objects upon the mantle.

Pointing with his cane, John commented “It’s a skull.” Sherlock smiled, replying “Friend of mine, well, when I say ‘friend.’”  
  
Before John could inquire further into the mystery of the skull, Mrs. Hudson appeared from the stairwell. “Well, what do you think then, Dr. Watson?” She questioned, setting some linens upon the couch. “There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.” A little smile spread across her lips, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Well, of course we will be needing two.” John replied, baffled as to her insinuation. Is she saying Sherlock and I are a couple? 

“Oh, don’t worry. There all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner, next door has got married ones.” Yes, she thought that they were a couple. Before he could correct the mistake, Mrs. Hudson moved into the kitchen. “Oh, Sherlock, look at the mess you’ve made.” Mrs. Hudson called. Dr. Watson was fairly certain he was not ready to face the kitchen yet.

Grabbing an Army Jack pillow from a box, John sat down in one of the armchairs. Turning to Sherlock he stated, “I looked you up on the internet last night.” 

Sherlock gazed at him, a look of curiosity in his eyes “Anything interesting?” Sherlock asked. 

“I found your website. The Science of Deduction” John replied.

“What do you think?” A smile had crossed Sherlock face for a moment. 

“You said you can identify a software designer by his tie and an airline plot by his left thumb.” John intoned all his disbelief. The smile disappeared. 

“Yes, and I can read your medical record by your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits by your mobile phone.” Sherlock replied his tone slight offended. 

“How?"

As if sensing the sudden tension in the room, Mrs. Hudson came fluttering back in holding today’s newspaper aloft. “What about these suicides then, Sherlock? That would be right up your street. Three, exactly the same!” She looked up at Sherlock, expectantly.

“Four. There’s been a fourth. There’s something different this time.” Sherlock said, his attention directed out the window. 

“A fourth” Mrs. Hudson asked, her toned worried. 

As Greg Lestrade came bouncing up the stairs, Sherlock turned “Where?” 

Without hesitation the DI replied “Braxton. Lawrences Garden.”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t of come to get me if there wasn’t something different.” Sherlock stated, imperiously. 

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yes” Sherlock replied, a gleam appearing in his eye. 

“This one did. Will you come?” 

Sherlock seem to hesitant for a moment before asking “Who’s on forensics?”

“It’s Andersen.” Greg signed. 

“He doesn’t work well with me.” Sherlock slummed, looking upset. 

“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”

“I need an assistant!” Sherlock snapped.

Instead of responding with anger that most would, Lestrade calmly asked “Will you come?”

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.” Sherlock replied.

“Thank you.” Greg took off down the stairs, hurrying back to his crime scene. Sherlock watched the DI leave, as if waiting for something.

The moment Lestrade was out of the townhouse, Sherlock began jumping with joy. “Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note! It’s like Christmas!” With a swirl and a swoosh, Sherlock was pulling on his great coat and hugging Mrs. H goodbye. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. I might need food.”

“I’m your landlady, dear not your housekeeper.” She replied. “Something cold will do.” With a quick turn he addressed the former army doctor. “John, have a cup of tea. Make yourself at home. Don’t wait up.” With that he rushed out the door. John disliked the envy that he felt. It was bad enough being sent back from the war, but this made him feel even more like an invalid. Mrs. Hudson next statement didn’t help at all.

“Look at him, dashing about. My husband was just the same, but you’re more the sitting down type, I can tell.” John stared at his hand, trying to control the temper just under the surface. “I’ll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg.” Mrs. Hudson stated, cheerily heading downstairs.

“Damn my leg!” John shouted angrily, causing her to jump. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just sometimes this bloody thing.” Dr. Watson pretends it was his leg, and not the impeding anger he felt, that caused his outburst. 

“I understand, dear. I got a hip.” She continued to head out.

“A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you.” Watson said, trying to ease the situation back into his favor. 

“Just this once dear, I’m not your housekeeper.” Mrs. Hudson replied. 

Trying to get as much out of this being invalid thing as he could, he continued “Couple of biscuits, too, if you got them.” 

Shaking her head, Mrs. Hudson replied “Not your housekeeper!”

John settled in, reading the newspaper Mrs. Hudson left behind. From nowhere, Sherlock spoke “You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an army doctor.” He stood in the doorway, staring at John.

John stood up, wondering what the detective was on about now. “Yes.” John said.

“Any good” Sherlock asked.

“Very good” replied John, firmly.

“You’ve seen a lot of injuries then, violent deaths.” Sherlock commented as he moved closer.

“Hmm, yes.” John looked up at the taller man, untroubled by his closeness.

“A bit of trouble too, I bet.” Sherlock watched John’s face closely, waiting for the key to achieving his assistance.

“Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much” John replied, the words coming out practiced, used to saying what was wanted to be heard about the war and the conflicts.

Smiling his victory, Sherlock asked “Want to see some more?”

John breathed deeply, his eyes dilating “oh, God, yes.”

Sherlock walked out with glee in his eyes, John close behind him. As they walked down the stairs, John called out “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip on the tea. Got out.”

“Both of you” Mrs. Hudson asked, worry evident in her voice. Sherlock turned, looking her straight in the eye as he approached. 

“Possible suicides, four of them, why sit at home when there is finally something fun going on?” He kissed her cheek, his eyes shining with excitement.

“Look at you, all happy. It’s not decent.” Mrs. Hudson stated, as Sherlock headed for the door.

“Who care about decent? Mrs. Hudson, the game is on!”


End file.
